


Raven Among Crows

by Sianco (gwenynnefydd)



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Abortion, Character Death, M/M, Medical Malpractice, Medical Trauma, Zero Ethics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2020-03-29 17:58:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenynnefydd/pseuds/Sianco
Summary: "A heart can love as many as it wishes; a soul can only devote itself to one at a time."(duplicate posting)





	Raven Among Crows

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a duplicate of an orphaned work, that I'm reclaiming to put back under my own name (teen!me was far too enthusiastic about orphaning /o\ ).
> 
> Also please note I wrote this when I was 16-17, and parts of this are kinda weird and problematic for all sorts of reasons. I certainly would've written this with a lot more thought and tact had I written it today.

* * *

 

_"Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow_  
_From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -_  
_For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -_  
_Nameless here for evermore."_

* * *

It was not under the most pleasant circumstances in which I fled Argentina during those summer months over ten years ago. In fact, referring to those circumstances as anything other than unbearable would've been a terrible understatement. In fact, there were no words to describe the travesty that was the death of my wife, the betrayal of my neighbours and my cowardly escape.

I must hasten to add that my departure was not of my own volition. Had there been any other choice that did not involve the execution of myself, and the deportation of my firstborn Grace, I would've taken it. Unfortunately, circumstances beyond my control had forced my hasty escape. It had come to my attention, from my friend, Benjamin, whom I had met when I first travelled to Argentina, that someone in the village had given evidence that would ensure my incarceration, and that I must run before the police delved further.

I had originally protested. Running would only further certify my guilt, and I had witnessed many a criminal flee only to be caught in the next town, or on the border of a country. Fleeing would've meant leaving Grace behind, as I could not have run with an infant in tow. I may have been living in Argentina, but I was an Englishman through and through, and running was not in my nature, and although Benjamin offered to let me travel with his wife, Maria, who was a travelling performer, much like my Cinders was, I refused to leave. In the end, he had to practically kidnap both me and Grace whilst we were sleeping – a state of affairs I was not happy with.

But I didn't have much choice – a manhunt was underway as soon as the police had realised I was gone. I had to hide myself. I reluctantly shed the skin of Arthur Hastings and became just another man, just another traveller. Maria encouraged me to pick up my schoolboy interest in piano, and be her personal pianist, a role I accepted, mostly out of a need to not feel useless on our travels.

But that was then, and this is now. Ten years have passed since I left the plantation. The police, after quite a lengthy manhunt, eventually gave up in their search for me. I am older, now in my forties, and I look very different from the old Arthur Hastings. Grace has grown from a tiny five year old to a tall, willowy woman of nearly sixteen, who often sings duets with Maria during our travels. We have travelled the length and breadth of the Americas, performing our art, living quite frugally. We made our name, Maria and Grace being known the best, Benjamin being known as the manager, and I only being known under the nickname of 'Ivory'.

And now, for the first time as a troupe, we were travelling to England.

When Dulcie lived, I visited England yearly, mainly to visit my good friend Poirot, with whom I often exchanged letters whilst I was in Argentina. However, since my impromptu, involuntary escape, I had not contacted him at all. It had been ten years – I often wondered on his wellbeing, and whether he hated me as much as I would hate him if he did not reply to any of my letters for ten years.

I did miss him dearly. Even when Dulcie was alive, and we were newlyweds, I missed him. I felt guilty at the time, for not being happy as I could be with my new wife, but I could not help it. Poirot was a constant in my life, a rock in which to cling to when the sea of life was too chaotic to swim in. However much I loved Dulcie, a large portion of my soul was devoted to the prissy little Belgian in Whitehaven Mansions.

I had even told Grace of him. Many a night, her bedtime story requests were stories about my time with him, be it one of the (less grotesque, normally jewellery-related) case stories, or the funny antics we got up to in his flat, usually stories about me leaving things around his flat and him getting annoyed. Grace had become quite a fan of his due to this type of story-telling.

Speaking of Grace, I saw her wave at me from across from the door that led onto the deck of this ship. I must have been on deck longer than I thought – I had gone out for some air and must've accidentally remained here for most of the journey, lost in my thoughts. Looking out to the horizon, I could see the skyline of the Brighton through the dark night sky.

"Come along, Da!" I heard Grace shout from behind me. "Benjamin will leave without you if you don't hurry!"

I turned and gave her a wave, and she vanished back into the cabin. I gave one last look out to the skyline, before following. We weren't scheduled to perform in London, but I hoped to have time to go and see my old friend. Whereas the pain of losing Dulcie had now reduced to a dull ache, the ache of not being able to see Poirot grew more each day.

I wished to see him. That is, if he didn't hate me from not contacting him for ten years.

* * *

" _Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;_ __  
_But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -_ __  
_Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -_ _  
__Perched, and sat, and nothing more."_

* * *

My wish came true earlier than I had expected it to. We had docked on the pier, and headed straight for our hotel – our first performance was tomorrow, and we needed to shake off any boatlag we may have accumulated on our voyage across the Atlantic. I was just preparing to go to bed, when there suddenly came a frantic knocking at my door.

I quickly pulled on a dressing gown and answered. Grace stood outside, hair half-done in a plait and eyes brimming over with exceitement. She came inside and sat in the lounge area, tapping her fingers at an erratic pace on her own dressing gown. I shut the door and joined her.

"What's got you excited, Grace?" I asked. She grinned up at me.

"It's him, Da!" she said breathlessly. " _It's him!_ "

"Who?"

Grace rolled her eyes at my cluelessness. "You know, _him!_ Your old friend! _Monsieur Poirot!_ "

I stared at her. "Wha- _Poirot?_ Are you sure?"

"Sure as I am of my own name! I overheard him speaking to a young woman as he passed by my door, and at the end the woman said 'Goodnight, Monsieur Poirot'! So I peeked around my door and saw him go into the room opposite yours! He's exactly as you described him, Da! Green eyes, moustache and all!"

"I say! I didn't know he was here! Did you hear if he was on a case?"

"I don't know – I didn't hear anything about one. But isn't this exciting!"

"Yes. Perhaps-" I looked up at the clock, but then shook my head when I saw the time. "No, I'll have to introduce you in the morning. It's far too late to speak to him now."

Grace looked slightly put out, but after seeing the time, she bade me good night and slipped out the door. I listened to her footsteps pad softly down the corridor outside, before finishing my own preparations for bed.

As I slipped between the crisp sheets of the hotel bed, I couldn't but think of the little man who I now knew to be occupying the rooms across the hall. I wondered who the woman Poirot was speaking to was. Was it a client, or perhaps a new assistant? I knew that Miss Lemon sometimes went with Poirot on cases when I was not available, as did a novelist I could not remember the name of. Perhaps it was one of them. I idly wondered if Poirot would allow me to be of assistance if he already had an assistant with him. He probably would, although I'd probably have to wait a while. A lot could change in ten years, after all.

Whilst I was thinking of the possibilities, a dark thought entered my mind. What if the woman was a Mrs Poirot? My gut instinctively clenched at the thought, but I forced it to relax. I was his friend – I should not be jealous of a hypothetical Mrs Poirot. If he married, I should be happy for him, like he was when I married all those years ago. But despite _shouldn't_ feeling jealous, my stomach roiled in discontentment with the whole issue.

I turned on my side and let out a rush of air. _I'm tired and my imagination is going wild_ , I told myself. _In the morning, I'll be able to find out and be happy for him, whatever the outcome_. My body seemed to disagree on this, but I tried my best to ignore it. After some time, in which I argued with myself some more, I fell into a troubled doze.

* * *

"' _But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,_ __  
_And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,_ __  
_That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -_ _  
__Darkness there, and nothing more."_

* * *

The next morning, I awoke far later than my usual hour of waking, and so I was half way through dressing when there came a frantic knocking at my door. Quickly, I buttoned and collared my shirt, smoothed the usual early-morning curls that my head habitually grew and hurried to the door. It was Benjamin, with both Grace and Maria behind him, and from his expression, I could see there was something terribly wrong.

"What's happened?" I asked, as I ushered them through the door. Benjamin gave me a grim look as he lowered himself onto the settee. Grace and Maria sat either side of him. I dropped into a nearby armchair, feeling unaccountably nervous.

"Arthur, you're undoubtedly aware that the famous detective Monsieur Poirot is next door." Benjamin started, steepling his fingers across his knees.

"Of course," I replied. "Grace told me yesterday evening. I was going to talk to him this morning, in fact-"

"You might not want to do that." Benjamin told me grimly.

"Why ever not?"

"He's been assigned a case by Dulcie's sister. She believes Dulcie to have been murdered."

"I don't see-"

"Arthur…" Benjamin sighed and rubbed his face. Maria laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Arthur, he's looking for you. He thinks you're the murderer."

My stomach dropped to the floor. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought _Poirot_ , of all people, would believe me capable of murdering my wife. "How'd you know?" I asked, hoping this to be one great misunderstanding.

"He was asking at reception for us, and for an 'Arthur Hastings'. Luckily we had you down in a false name, but the receptionist gave them our room numbers, as well as yours."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"I overheard them last night." Maria piped up, leaning forward. "Him and Bella. When they passed by our door, I heard them talk about you. She asked whether he thought you were the murderer, and he said he didn't see any alternative as of yet."

"That was the part of the conversation I missed when I overheard them. I only heard the end." Grace supplied. She looked downright miserable at this turn of events, and I felt terribly guilty at bringing this upon our heads once again. Grace knew the circumstances of her mother's death, and was still distressed whenever it was mentioned, even more so whenever I was implicated.

"Okay." I sighed, completely defeated. "What will we do?"

"We're going to have to bolt." Benjamin spoke this time, and it seems he wasn't any happier than I at these circumstances. "We might not last as long as we have done, but there's not much choice at the moment-"

 _Tap, tap, tap._ The unmistakeable sound of someone knocking at the door stopped Benjamin in his tracks. For a few horrified seconds, we all stared at the door, before Grace leapt into action. She dashed across and pulled up my collar, hiding the lower half of my face. Maria pushed a few piano sheets and a pen into my arms. "Bury yourself in these, Arthur." She whispered.

I did as I was asked. As Benjamin went to answer the door, I curled up further and prayed to God that it wasn't Poirot at the door. If it were Poirot at the door, I fervently hoped he would not recognize Arthur Hastings as Ivory, the dishevelled pianist I attempted to hide myself as.

Luck was not on our side at the start. Benjamin opened the door, and I heard his surprised greeting of 'Monsieur Poirot! How nice to meet you!'. I turned in my armchair so that my back was to the door. As much as I wanted to see how ten years had weathered my friend, I did not want to chance an early discovery.

"Come on in, sit down, if you wish." I heard a mumbled " _Merci, monsieur."_ from behind me, before I heard them approach where I was. From what I knew, both Grace and Maria had not left the settee, so I guessed that it was Benjamin who sat between them again, and Poirot who took the only free armchair opposite me. I felt his gaze on my cheek, as he glanced curiously at me. I buried my chin further into my collar, and kept my eyes glued to the sheets in front of me.

"I do apologize for the mess, Monsieur Poirot." Maria said once everyone had settled. "Ivory here-" A brief pause as she indicated to me. "-was in the middle of composition when you arrived, and he tends to… spread out when he feels creative. We don't normally have visitors here, you see."

" _Bien sûr_ ," Poirot replied, and I held back a shiver – his voice was exactly as I remembered it. "I understand."

"So what brings you here, Monsieur Poirot?" Benjamin asked. We all knew why he was here, of course, but one had to keep up appearances.

"I am here in search of a man you knew well," Poirot spoke softly. "I am here in search of an Arthur Hastings."

"Arthur?" Maria spoke next. "Of course we know Arthur – he was our neighbour for five years, after all."

"Would you know where he is now, _madam_?"

"Why, no – the last time I saw him was over ten years ago. When his wife died, Dulcie. Poor girl. Benjamin here was her doctor – there in her last moments, weren't you Ben?"

"I was. Though I sometimes wish I wasn't." Benjamin replied, though I could feel a faint taste of fear in his voice.

"Why is that, Monsieur Benjamin?"

"Her death, it was just so- so-" He broke, and I could literally feel the air shake as he shuddered. "It was _horrible_ , monsieur. I wouldn't like to go into details, but it was one of the few patients who's ailments have haunted me for weeks. If Arthur were here, he could attest to this. He was there right to the very end, through the worst of it too."

As Benjamin spoke, my thoughts turned back to that fateful day. I remembered it all too clearly. The blood that had burst forth from her body. Her ripped up innards, torn and raw, begging for mercy. The bottle of cool liquid held in my sweaty palm. The quiet that fell to silence.

"Did you know what killed her?" Poirot asked, bringing me back to reality.

"The inquest said she had died of an anaesthetic overdose."

"What is your personal opinion, after seeing her?"

"My opinion? From seeing her at her worst health, it could've been anything."

Poirot nodded, as if something Benjamin had said had given him a clue. "Unfortunately, it is because of the death of his wife that I am in search of him. Are you sure you have not seen him?"

"Absolutely positive." Marie replied. "If we had seen him, he would've more than likely taken Grace along with him."

"Grace? His daughter, _oui?_ "

"Yes. That would be me." For the first time since Poirot entered the room, Grace spoke. She spoke quietly, as if she would cry if she raised her voice above that level. I felt her pain as if it were my own.

"Do you remember much about your father and mother?" Poirot's tone had turned compassionate – he was always very good with upset women. He hadn't lost his touch, it seems.

"Only a little about Da." She replied. "Mother was always in hospital."

" _Je comprends._ "

"Most of my memories of Da are of him telling me stories about when he lived in London. Of all the capers he got up to. I don't remember much apart from that. Except…" Grace paused, seemingly conflicted on what to say. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Poirot take her hand.

"Come, come. You can tell all to _Papa_ _Poirot_." He told her, holding her hand as if it were a fragile rose. Grace smiled slightly at him, before continuing her narrative.

"Well, I remember the last time I saw him. I think I do, anyway. I'm not sure if it's my mind making things up again or not. I remember… he… he was by the car, and his stuff was packed. And he told me… he told me if I needed him, if anyone needed him, he'd be there if they called loud enough. That's all I remember."

This memory had in fact happened, although it was in a different context to what it was recalled in. It was before Dulcie's death, when I left on one of my trips for England. In my peripheral vision, I saw Poirot nod understandingly, before turning to Benjamin, who had started speaking again.

"I'm afraid, Monsieur Poirot, that is the last we've heard of him. He just vanished after that. Maria, Grace and I left Argentina soon after to travel. We met Ivory-" A brief pause as he indicated to me. "-in the States, and the rest, as you say, is history."

"So you do not know Arthur Hastings, Monsieur Ivory?" That question was directed at me, but it was Maria who answered.

"No, he doesn't. Or if he does, I'd be quite surprised. He doesn't speak much you see. Awfully shy. You'd be lucky to get a word out of him, Monsieur Poirot."

"Indeed." I felt his gaze burn the revealed part of my face, and I felt my body flush in response. I reshuffled some papers and buried myself in them. The gaze lingered for a while, before it abruptly cut off. I felt its loss keenly.

"At what time will you be leaving?" Poirot asked, back to his business like self.

"Err… Wednesday, I think." Maria replied, a hint of doubt creeping into her voice.

"Tuesday, Maria. We wanted to have a day's extra travelling in case of breakdowns, remember?" Benjamin corrected her.

"Oh, of course!"

" _Bon._ I thank you for your hospitality, _madams, monsieurs._ " I watched him rise out of the corner of my eye. "I may need to speak to you again before _mardi_ , if that is agreeable to you?"

"If you wish."

" _D'accord_. In which case, I may speak to you in the future. Until then, _au revoir_." With that, Poirot made his way to the door and left through it. At the sound of the door clicking shut. I looked up from my papers. The occupants of the room were all looking at me. Benjamin spoke the words which were on everyone's minds.

"We're in trouble."

* * *

" _Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!_ __  
_Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!_ __  
_Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'_ _  
__Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.'"_

* * *

Now currently unable to flee until Tuesday, lest incur the suspicion of Poirot, I seemed to spend most of my time avoiding his presence. At the insistence of the others, I had to keep up my appearance as a dishevelled pianist. It was not a role I enjoyed much – I did not like to be dressed so untidily, and the longer curls from my head often reached and tickled my nose, making me sneeze. However, one small comfort was the fact I could neaten up for a performance – one could not play the piano whilst sneezing after all.

Poirot seemed not to be actively searching me out anymore. Benjamin had reported that the Belgian had asked him and Maria a few questions about me, but they seemed perfectly innocuous. Grace had not been approached, but had spent an afternoon exchanging stories with him through her own volition. He had not approached me, and I guessed that my disguise had worked. That or his attempts at speaking with me were thwarted as I was never in the same room as him for more than a few minutes.

In fact, the first time I spoke to him directly on this trip was Sunday evening, three days after the meeting in my room. I was sat at the piano in the hotel's library, idly playing a few light melodies, sometimes making up my own, and sometimes playing those of which I knew. The rain outside ran in thick rivulets down the window panes, isolating the room from the rest of the house.

I'd just finished playing a rather lengthy jazz number when the door to the room discretely opened, and Poirot stepped in, lost in thought. Out of habit, I hid myself behind my collar, hiding my face. Unfortunately for me, the movement drew his attention, and Poirot realised that there was someone else in the room.

"Ah, _pardonnez-moi,_ Monsieur Ivory, I did not realise you were here." He went to leave, but for some reason I could not explain, and still cannot explain now, I asked him to stay.

"Please, do not leave on my account. Stay if you wish." I disguised my voice by stage-whispering instead of speaking normally. Poirot's eyebrow rose slightly, but he did not comment – he merely muttered a quiet ' _Merci_ ' and headed to a nearby chair. A mixed scent of cologne and tisane gently reached my nose as he passed, and I smiled slightly at the memories they brought forth.

I knew I could not stay long in his company, lest he recognise me, but there was a kind of peace in being in his company once again. I turned back to the piano and swept an errant curl from my face, before ploughing into a new song. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not keep its usual pace, and ended up drawing it out with lengthy crescendo's and key changes. Soon my hands ran away from me, and I improvised for a while, softly mixing the higher notes with the dulcet sounds of the lower range.

As I played, I felt the atmosphere around me change. The air seemed to be charged with an unknown energy, the rain outside seemed to mute into nothingness. My skin came out in goose bumps, and my head felt light. As my hands danced towards the higher end of the ivories, I noticed Poirot's hand was hung over some of them, not touching, just resting in the air above.

I let my hand dance around his fingers for a while, tapping the notes between where his hands lay, sometimes dipping underneath his palm to play the ebonies. My fingers spiralled along the notes, until after some time, I was only playing two notes. I slowed the pace, then dropped a note and tapped at one, before stopping all together, my hand resting underneath his, not touching, just resting on the keys below.

"…Arthur?" He rarely used my name. I knew the game was up. Slowly, I lifted my head, and met the green orbs of the little man that part of my soul had devoted itself to. The air around us seemed to thicken, its charge skimming across my lips and down my throat, setting my soul alight. The rain was now only a quiet murmur in the background, as if it had quietened down just to watch us.

We watched each other for a while, examining every line, every detail of each other's faces. For us, eons had passed since we'd last seen each other. Ages had wandered by as we yearned for each other, and now I could see that perhaps it was possible to love two people at once, that it was possible to love my wife and this wonderful, _wondrous_ man who stood before me, who was my lodestone in times gone by, my rock in the oceans of madness, the person I now had chance to devote my entire being to…

Our hands joined across the upper keys, my long, chapped fingers wrapping around his short, sturdier ones. His head tilted and he lent closer to me. I lifted my chin in reply, a silent invitation. Our lips met softly at first, but as they parted after the first kiss, they came together with a new urgency. My left hand slipped off the low end of the piano with a jarring tangle of notes, but we ignored it. Poirot's free hand came forth and tangled itself in the mass of curls my hair had become, pulling me deeper into the kiss.

We parted again as the world rightened itself and everything hit me. The rain resumed it's normal volume. Jarring piano notes hung in the air. My brain caught up with the illegality of what we were doing. My heart didn't really give a damn, beating hard with exhilaration. I looked back into his eyes, and saw everything – the euphoria, the slight fear, contentment and the loneliness of ten years without me. I rested my forehead against his.

"I'm sorry." I told him, voice was thick with emotion. "I'm so very sorry."

He gently kissed my forehead. There were no words needed.

* * *

" _Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered -_ __  
_Till I scarcely more than muttered 'Other friends have flown before -_ __  
_On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'_ _  
__Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'"_

* * *

Somehow during the course of the evening, we had migrated from the library to Poirot's bedroom without being disturbed by anyone. We were currently curled up together on his bed – still clothed, although we had abandoned our shoes, socks and ties at the door, and Poirot had hung his outer jacket on a hook on his way in. I lay against his shoulder, idly fiddling with one of the buttons on his shirt. He was combing his hand through my hair, looking pensieve.

 _"Mon ami?"_ He finally asked. I looked up from the button I was playing with.

"Yes?"

"What happened in _l'Argentine_?" he asked, after a brief pause. I sighed against him, and ran my thumb along the fold of his clothes. I was expecting this – but it still did not make it any easier to say.

"It was Dulcie," I said, after a few minutes of deciding how to start. "She was very… fragile… after Grace was born. It was a difficult birth for her. Benjamin – her doctor, you know – told her not to have another child. It would be too dangerous. But you knew Dulcie, she wasn't one to listen to reason when she had her heart set on something. And she had her heart set on a little boy."

"So after three years, she went for a check with Benjamin. He checked her over, checked blood pressure and pulse… And he could hear two pulses. Dulcie was overjoyed when she found out she would be expecting. I was too. And Grace. She was four – so excited for a baby brother or sister. We were as happy as can be. But then…"

I paused, as a wave of sadness and half-buried memories overtook my mind. Poirot, sensing my distress, pulled me closer to him. He carefully fingered each curl, and kissed each one as he passed it by. After a while, his meticulous ministrations paid off, and the period of distress passed, and I was able to continue with my narrative.

"The months went by. Her bump grew. But Dulcie grew more and more withdrawn. She kept saying 'This doesn't feel right' and 'There's something wrong with my baby'. You always taught me to trust the feminine intuition. I trusted what she said, so we took her to Benjamin. He took one look at her bump and knew straight out that something was amiss. So he checked her over, checked the bump, took its pulse… He could only find one pulse."

"He told us not to panic, but he wanted Dulcie to stay in the local hospital until the birth. So she did. I visited her every day, sometimes with Grace, sometimes by myself. Months went by. The bump got bigger. Dulcie became more and more morose and closed in. Benjamin still couldn't find a pulse. He decided to take her in for surgery instead of letting her have a natural birth. It was lucky he did too."

"I was allowed to be in the same room as her when they did the surgery. Benjamin opened her up. I could see inside of her from where I stood at the edge of the room, but all I could see was a pulsating pus-filled mass. Because, you see… our baby had been lying dead in her womb for over six months. The tumour had strangled it."

My next words were forced – at this point I was struggling to hold back tears. "Benjamin set to work removing it, but as soon as he touched it… It completely just… Boom. Ripped her womb into two. Everything was everywhere. Benjamin was up to his elbows in blood and God knows what. Benjamin started doing all that he could to sow her back up again, but I knew she wouldn't make it. I just passed him the anaesthetic, and he knew what I meant, and…"

At this point, I lost the battle with my emotions. I did not make a fuss of the tears, I just let them fall down my face. I turned my head to avoid getting them on Poirot's shirt, but with a sigh, Poirot pulled me back down so I was leaning against him once more. He held me tightly to him, and I held him just as tightly back.

We stayed like this for what seemed like an age, until the tears had dried, and I was simply shaking against Poirot's chest. When Poirot looked down and saw I had stopped crying, he pressed his lips to my forehead, before he suddenly got up and left the room. For one frightful minute, I feared he had left me in disgust – who would want to comfort a man who essentially murdered his wife? – but soon he returned with a cloth and a bowl of warm water. With an infinite amount of care, he cleared away the residue left from the tears from my face and neck. Once finished, he put the bowl and cloth aside, and retook his place beside me. I held him close again, and he resumed his previous activity of stroking my hair.

"We held Dulcie's funeral within a few days," I continued to tell Poirot the story, my voice much stronger than it was before. "Afterwards, Grace and I left for home. But before we could get very far outside the town, Benjamin stopped us. He'd heard that a neighbour of ours had gone to the police… They believed we had murdered her in cold blood. He told us that come morning, they would be digging up the grave, testing her body… and they'd find out what we did. They wouldn't understand. We had to run.

"I couldn't contact you. I wasn't allowed to contact any one I knew, in case they turned me in. For ten years we travelled the world, became quite well known. And then… well, you know the rest."

I fell silent. The room was quiet, only filled with the quiet sounds of us breathing and of Poirot's hands through my hair. We lay there in quiet contemplation for quite some time, lost in our thoughts, until Poirot spoke.

"Thank you, _mon ange_." He spoke with compassion in his voice. "Thank you for telling me."

"You will not leave, now that you knew I…?" I started to ask, but he cut across me.

"Now that I know you put a dying woman out of her misery? No, I will not leave. You were exceptionally courageous, _mon brave_. Not many men would be brave enough to help someone die in peace. I understand what you did, and I accept it. You loved her, and that is why you had to do it."

"I did love her," I replied. "I loved both of you. Although I tried to pretend I didn't. I can see now, in matters of the heart, you can love as many people as you wish, but you can only devote your soul to one at a time, lest you go mad. I am lucky in the fact I could devote my soul to Dulcie, and now to you."

I felt Poirot smile against my head. I turned in his arms and kissed him lightly on the lips. He returned the gesture in kind, before pulling away and eyeing me critically.

"You are tired, _mon ami_."

"I'm no-" I tried to answer, but my resistance proved futile when I let loose a jaw –cracking yawn. Poirot chuckled at my expense.

"Sleep now, Hastings. I will be here in the morning."

I smiled, and shut my eyes. I did not care that I was still in my every day clothes, or that Poirot was too, I was happy enough to lay here, and have my hair petted by the man who my soul had devoted itself to. Perhaps there are those who think I am fickle, transferring my affections from one to another, but I do not believe my affections are being transferred. I will always love Dulcie, but my time with her is up. I'll take the chance God has granted me, and start my life afresh with Poirot at my side.

* * *

" _And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,_ __  
_And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;_ __  
_And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor_ _  
__Shall be lifted - nevermore!"_

* * *

_Extracts from "The Raven", by Edgar Allen Poe_


End file.
